


Father Pascal

by moonstoneclone



Category: Pedro Pascal - Fandom
Genre: Catholicism, Christianity, F/M, Inaccurate Catholicism, Priest Kink, Religion, Religion Kink, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:26:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22018606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonstoneclone/pseuds/moonstoneclone
Summary: Priest kink is in the houserenamed from "The Best is Yet to Come"
Relationships: Pedro Pascal/Reader, Pedro Pascal/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 58





	1. FPI

**Author's Note:**

> For the Mando Mafia

High arches greeted you as the ornate double doors opened. An older man in a tweet jacket hands you a pamphlet as you make your way through the narthex. Light filters through the stained glass, giving the nave an ethereal glow, colors switching from blue, to pink, to orange on the marble floors as you make your way up the aisle to your favorite spot. You bow before the large Crucifix mounted behind the altar before being seated. 

The organ music soars, it’s haunting lyrical tune shaking you to your core as the procession passes you. The choirs’ voices echo off the intricate ceilings. Altar boys dressed in white robes clasp their hands together in prayer down the aisle. The servers burn incense, tickling your nose as they pass. The Deacon follows.

Then it’s him.

The Father faces the heavens, his intense dark eyes alight with passion, holding the sacred text high. The congregation bows as he passes, their voices joining the choir in song. He’s wearing the dark blue cassick today, your personal favorite, with small gold designs patterned over the heavy garment. It makes him stand out even more, he looks more human, his skin glowing. You frown as you see he hid his curls today, forcing them into submission with gel. You repressed the feral urge to jump over the altar and tug his dark curls from bondage. 

The service goes on as normal, you sing, you pray, you kneel, you listen. But your eyes never leave his form as he moves gracefully across his stage, passionately reciting excerpts from the text, his accent coming through as he sings his lines. His voice is beautiful when he sings, soft and masculine, and a wave of calm washes over you as he continues. 

The Holy Communion. Your mouth waters, and you decide it’s because of the Pavlovian response, not because of the man doing the breaking of the Host. You approach the altar rail and kneel before Him. The strong melody of the organ intensifies your already racing heart as you wait to be fed. 

The Father stands before you, his dark eyes speaking blasphemy as he recites his line. “The Bread of God.”

Your eyes are trained on his face as he watches your mouth. You open willingly, your tongue reaching for his hand as he takes a wafer from his silver tray. He bends forward to place the wafer in your mouth. A stray curl falls onto his forehead. 

You reach up and tuck it away. His fingers enter your mouth. Your mouth waters as he sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes immediately meeting yours. His mouth parts slightly as you enclose around his fingers, sucking on them as you slowly release them. He fixates on the saliva that spills onto your chin, taking his thumb and wiping it away, his index and middle fingers glistening in the blue and pink light. Realizing what you had done, you quickly stand and make the sign of the cross over yourself, muttering an “Amen” as you retreat from the altar. 

He glances at you every few seconds as Mass continues. His graceful movements now sloppy, curt, aggressive. His voice seems lost, only an echo of what is usually is. Your face is still hot as you hide behind the Hymnal, struggling to keep your shaking voice in check. 

The organ sings one more time as the procession leads the congregation out of the nave, back into their daily lives. You stay behind, like always, and listen to the finishing notes of the organ, trying to calm your pounding heart. Your eyes close as embrace the hymn, allowing yourself to be swept away. 

He’s there when you open your eyes. The double doors are closed. Only the two of you are left in the nave. Wordlessly, he offers his hand and you take it, marveling in the warmth radiating from him. He leads you behind the altar.

You cling to each other, waiting to see who first crosses the threshold. It’s him. 

Your teeth clack as lips crash together, hands wandering. He pants against your mouth as you unzip his trousers, palming the growing bulge. He moans loudly, his brows furrowing together, pulling away from you. 

“I… I can’t.” His eyes are pained and filled with longing. Longing to be with you in every way.

You place a finger against his trembling lips. “I know. We won’t.”

You kiss him slowly as you pull him out, giving experimental strokes. His arms fly to the altar behind him, gripping the edges as he lets out a gasp in pleasure. He throws his head back, eyes squeezed shut in pure bliss. He hears you spit into your hands and he lets out a whimper in anticipation.

His primal urges grow with each stroke you give him and a growl escapes his lips as he becomes frustrated at the pace, bucking into your hands to achieve more friction. You tsk as you cup his face gently. “Patience, Father. Good things come to those who wait.”

He only grunts in response, mesmerized by the way he feels in your hand. His knuckles are white like the cloth of the altar, his breath coming in puffs as he nears his release. He stands on the edge of the abyss, looking out into the unknown, feeling the Divine on the horizon. His eyes are glazed over, facing the Heavens as if in silent prayer.

“Look at me, Father.”

The intense gaze burns holes into him, sending shockwaves throughout his body. The colored light dances across your face, giving you an ethereal glow. You’re beautiful beyond comprehension. He comes at the sight, his moans echoing off the high ceilings as he spills into your hand, his voice like a choir of angels. He hunches over, grabbing onto you like a lifeline as he rides out his orgasm. 

You whisper soft praises to him and he comes down from his high, caressing his face, pushing his dark curls away from his face. His forehead glistens with sweat. He is divine. And only you and the Almighty will see him like this.


	2. FPII

Your sin has been festering within you for weeks. It clings to you like a weed, devoiding you of what’s left of your already shaken faith. You continue to sing the hymns and recite the Word, but its phrases burn your tongue as their words of praise fall to the floor. You sit in the pew and stare at the floor during communion, not participating, refusing to look to the altar. To look at him.

He plagues your thoughts and dreams, he is the one you turn to when you need a release. You relive that day, remembering his fingers, so thick and warm in your mouth, the look in his eyes, so dark when you take him in, tracing your tongue across his digits. The way he falls apart in your arms with only you to see him this way, his orgasm ripping through him as strong as the gospel he recites every week. His now-unchaste lips haunt your memories, and you wonder if he ever feels the same, immoral urges that you feel.

It’s taken you weeks to allow yourself God’s forgiveness, standing before the confessional booth, trembling before the Almighty. You had prayed to the Holy Spirit, asking for help in your examination of conscience, but your mortal mind strayed to the image of the stray curl that fell onto his forehead, seemingly the bane of your existence, your personal demon. 

You closed the ornate oak door behind you as you sat at the bench facing the other stall, the lattice distorting a priest’s face. You stare at your feet, hands clasped tightly together, starting to perspire as you prepare yourself to face the Almighty and allow him permission to love you, to forgive you for leading an innocent man into temptation. 

You release a shaky breath and play with the hem of your shirt. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s… it’s been four weeks since my last Confession.” Your voice seems to die in the air, the large unforgiving walls closing in. Another breath, another pause. “I have been having these thoughts, Father. Impure, lustful thoughts about a man I can’t have. It’s wrong, I know, to have these thoughts, especially for a man of the cloth, but he is just so beautiful, Father. In a way, I believe it is God’s way of testing my faith, by placing him in my path. But I had failed and fell into temptation. He’s always in my mind, his gorgeous curly hair that he tries to hide, his dark eyes that look upon you with all the kindness in the world and seem to peer into your soul.”

It all came out so fast, your confession tumbling from your lips. “And I know it’s wrong, but just the thought of him does such things to me, Father. I… I want to be with him. Intimately. I am sorry for these thoughts and all my sins.” 

The priest’s silence is deafening. You fear that the priest would shame you, and tell you that the Almighty would never forgive you for your sin. The figure remains still, continuing to face the door in front of him. 

You recognize the outline of the man you just poured your heart out to. It was him, the one who’s body tempts you every day and night. At your gasp he turns towards you, the dim lighting barely registering his face to you, his dark eyes seemingly dark and filled with need.

Your heart is hammering in your chest, your voice barely above a whisper. “Do you want to know what he does to me?”

He knows he should stop you, but he can’t stop himself. He wants to hear you describe your fantasies--no, needs to hear them. His baritone voice rasps out, lustful, deep. “Confess to me.”

You lean back against the booth, picturing your fantasy. “I imagine what his hands would feel like on me, what it would be like to kiss him again, what his face would look like as we sin. Together. He would touch me so softly, so intimately, that it would set my skin on fire.”

Your hands wander across your body, imagining it’s him touching you, caressing you. You let out a small gasp as you reach your thighs and start teasing yourself. 

“I wonder what his skin tastes like or how his hair would feel tangled in my fingers, how wonderful he would feel inside me. I wonder what noises he would make for me as I kiss his neck and leave marks across his body, and touch him like no one has ever touched him. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want him.”

And the whole time he’s listening to your divine voice describing the most lustful things, and, God help him, he wants more. Before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s cupping himself over his trousers. Silently praying to God to forgive him, he rubs himself slowly, eliciting a soft moan from him that he tries to stifle. 

“Are you touching yourself,” you breathe.

You hear his shaky breath through the lattice. “Yes.”

“Mmm,” you breathe, continuing your ministrations, your voice growing breathy as you chase your release, the knowledge of him touching himself to your fantasies edging you closer to your release. “I think about you every night, knowing that we shouldn’t be there together. Tell me, father, what can I do to repent for my sinful ways? How-” you hear him groan as he frees himself from his confines “- how can I ever be clean after being so filthy?”

“Ah, well, my… my sinner,” he begins, pumping himself as he copies your position against the back wall. He loses the words he’s meant to say as he imagines all of the things he had longed to do to you. He wanted, no, needed, to worship your body the way he wanted to, lavishing you with kisses and tantalizing licks that would shake you to your core and elicit the most sinuous noises from you, moans that would make the devil himself blush.

Another moan from your lips pushes him close to the edge, leaving him bucking into his hands begging for release. 

“Father, do… ah…. Do you think he’d want me like I want him?”

His voice is shaky and breathless and he positions himself to face the lattice, to face you. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

“Please, Father,” you beg, facing him as you near your completion. “Does he?” You place a hand on the lattice for support and his follows, fingers brushing against any skin they can touch through the small openings in the wood.

“Look at me,” he ordered, “please.”

You peer through the shadows, meeting his eyes, drinking in the way the light highlights his cheekbones. You long to kiss him to relish in the taste of him.

You can feel his breath on your face. “I want you more than you know, I want to make love to you in the moonlight. I want to worship you like you’re my God, I want to praise your skin and I want you to speak my name… your voice alone is my high. I’m an addict and you’re my drug, I have never wished I hadn’t taken the oath until I saw you in my church.”

His words had expelled what was possessing you, bringing you tumbling over the edge.Your orgasm rips through you hard like a hot knife, leaving you gasping and rocking into your hand. You stifle your cry of pleasure, looking to the heavens as if searching for guidance, eyes squeezed shut.

He can’t hold it back anymore, knowing your confession, watching you fall apart to the mere thought of his touches. He closes his eyes, sending a silent prayer for forgiveness, and cums. He doesn’t hold back, letting out a relieved moan and resting his head against the lattice as he pants softly, riding out his orgasm. 

He’s overwhelmed with emotions: shock, shame, ecstasy. He’s unsure how to proceed, he’s never done something like this before. He’s never touched himself like this before you. He feels you play with a stray curl that had ventured through the lattice and a warm feeling blooms in his chest, a small smile playing at his lips.

“Father, what is my penance for my sins?”

His high came crashing down on him, all thoughts of being with you crushed with that one phrase. He pulls away from you and straightens, raking a hand through his hair. “Ah, uh, these thoughts are common for earthly beings. As long as one does not, uh, act on these urges and continue to use that energy towards creating good in the world, the Lord will forgive you for your transgressions.”

“... will the Father that I want also be forgiven for the thoughts that I have bestowed upon him?”

He didn’t have the answer for that question.

He heard the wood creak as you stood and fixed your clothes. He sees the door open, light illuminating your disheveled form, filling him with more sinful thoughts. Fortunately, you broke his concentration, turning to him. Your beauty paused all his thoughts as he focused on your face, memorizing every detail.

“Father--”

“Yes?”

You looked down shyly. “Would… would you like to have lunch sometime?”

Warmth returned to his chest as he smiled through the lattice, hope returning to his thoughts. “I would love to.”

You took Communion that day.


	3. FPIII

“Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”

“Thanks be to God.”

The organ plays your favorite dismissal tune, a strong and proud piece that makes your heart swell with joyfulness, causing you to close your eyes and take in the sounds around you. The weave of the music was hypnotic in the way it swung from tranquility to trumpeting. It soared over the chattering voices of the congregation as they line up to wait their turn to exit the narthex, the song see-sawed between anxiety and hope and was almost painful in the intensity and meaning behind the piece. It concluded in a major key, a satisfying end that left you filled with rejuvenation. 

You heard the key cover close with a clack as the organist left for the day, their footsteps dissipating into the narthex as well. It was after a few moments of silence that you heard the side door creak open and a set of heels walking towards your pew. You smile as the wood creaks next to you, signaling your companion had joined you.

“I would think after hearing the same piece every few weeks it would get redundant, but it’s still my favorite,” you say as you open your eyes to meet the face of Father Pedro. 

His amused expression lit his features, his beautifully dark eyes twinkling in the multicolored light. “I asked Kim to play it today, just for you.” His fingers drummed against the pew where his arm comfortably rested.

“Aww, Father, that’s so sweet of you,” you squeeze his bicep in thanks as he awkwardly chuckles at his own actions. Of course you’d appreciate the little request, why wouldn’t you?

He changed the subject to rid himself of his embarrassment. “There was a spider on the altar today. It crawled over the gospel as I was reading from it.”

“Is that why you were staring so hard at it,” you teased, grinning as he rolled his eyes, “did you kill it before Sam saw, you know how that kid gets.”

“Yeah, I flicked it off into the crowd, aimed it towards you, of course,” he jokes, nudging you a little with his body. You playfully slap his leg in retaliation.

“Gee thanks.”

“Always,” he winks, which leaves you melting as he continues, “are you free to do lunch this week?” 

You sighed and leaned against him. “I can’t, I have a lot of meetings this week so I’ll have to have lunch in the breakroom.”

After a few moments, his arm tentatively encircles your shoulders, rubbing your arm comfortingly. “That’s okay, maybe next week. Maybe I’ll treat you to some ice cream sometime after work.”

“Ugh, stop tempting me - aren’t you supposed to tell me to keep away from sin,” you swat at him again as he chuckles, “Father, you are too good for me.”

You gaze at each other, soft smiles reflecting on your faces. His free hand comes up to sweep some hair that had fallen into your face, moving down to caress your face, oh, so softly. You both revel in the moment, enjoying each other’s company, hoping that the other can’t hear your hearts pounding in your chests. He feels warm, and the world feels like it’s been painted in vibrant colors. Everything feels new, feels right.

The side door opens again and the Father snatches his hands away, as if been burned by your skin. The Deacon stands in the door, innocent to the moment he had ruined. “Father, someone wishes to speak with you in your office.”

You watch his resigned face as he nods his response to the man, standing to straighten his suit jacket. He sighs, facing you. “Duty calls.” The weight of that statement hits you both. Without another word, he leaves the pews and follows the Deacon out of the narthex.

You walk alone to your car that day.

His heart aches to follow you as he leaves with the Deacon, his heels echoing on the cold hard marble. He passes the gray walls, the mediocre paintings of priests that came before him. He wonders when his painting will be hung, and if he will look as serious as the faces who condescendingly stare back at him. He feels the lifeless eyes burn into his skin as he passes, as if they know his secrets, his dreams. 

Deacon Memphis glances back at him, “I’m surprised she still comes after she moved.”

Pedro shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. “Sorry, what? She moved?”

The Deacon snorts. “Yeah, she moved like three months ago. Lives like two hours away now and she still makes regular contributions to the church. That woman has a strong faith.”

His mind is reeling. You moved away. Yet you still came. Could it be? Could you have stayed for him? You wake up at the brink of dawn, drive two hours, just to see him. It must mean something, right? Maybe you’re feeling the same as he, this longing to be more than acquaintances, friends. Maybe those… acts… had actually meant something to you as well. 

That you maybe even lo―

He dares not finish that sentence. But maybe he should.

The Deacon is waving his hand in front of his face, a concerned look etched into his features. The walls are once again a light blue, the light filters through the stained glass in rays. Maybe he should allow himself to… feel. God didn’t put you in his life without reason, the Lord resides in the depths of his heart, he has known the Lord since his birth.  God made Eve as a “helpmate” for Adam. This idea of helper from the Old Testament comes with the sense of helping Adam as God helped Israel: He saves her, and she saves him. Eve was given to Adam not to fulfill some superficial sense of happiness but to actually complete what was lacking in his existence. Eve’s complementarity completed Adam in allowing him to have a companion to whom he could make a gift of himself. Adam became more himself as he loved (made of himself a gift to) Eve. Adam became less of the man he was created to be when he failed to love her. 

He loves you. And he will not fail to love you.

The Deacon calls out to him as he speeds out of the parking lot, going as fast as his old sedan will let him. He got your new address from the registry, his handwriting barely legible, hands shaking from the fear, the excitement, of letting go. He’s coming home. To you.

He dreams about your future together, about walking in the park hand-in-hand, sticking flowers in your hair as you laugh at his antics. He pictures you tangled together in white linens, hair draped over his chest as you sleep in on Sunday mornings. The word “we” becomes a permanent fixture in his mind. 

And there he is, standing in your driveway. The house suits you, there’s a small garden with lively-colored flowers swaying in the soft breeze, a little path that leads to your maroon front door. It’s cute, warm, and you. He pictures a little girl playing in the flowers as you both watch her, his arms wrapped securely around you. A small happy family.

He hesitates at your front door, and doubt creeps into his mind. What if… what if… 

No. He will put his faith in love.

The doorbell rings. He didn’t even realize he moved. The ring is like a song, a melodic call that beckons you to the door.

But it’s not you who answers.

A man stands before him, half dressed, in the doorway. He’s looking Pedro up and down, confusion blatant on his face. “Can I help you, fella?”

Pedro falters. “I, uh, I’m here to see Y/N.”

The man seems surprised. “Oh, sure! Honey,” he calls into the house. His heart breaks. “Honey, someone’s here to see you!”

And there you are, his light, his love. You’re smiling up at the man, this stranger he doesn’t know. And you look at him.

You smile fades. His heart shatters.

“Oh! Father, hey,” you say. Turning towards the other man, you murmur something to him and he nods, disappearing back into your house. You step outside, closing the door behind you.

You won’t meet his eyes. He’s almost glad, he doesn’t know if he could handle it. His world, his dream, is crashing around him in the silence surrounding you both. His lips tremble as he tries to keep it together.

His voice is weak. “How long?” He sounds pitiful, broken. 

Your eyes squeeze shut at his voice, guilt clouding your face. “...a month after my confessional.”

You continue, your voice getting thin. “I was leaving… lunch… and we ran into each other, uh, literally…”

He wanted you to stop, it was hurting too much. He could barely see you at this point, tears blurred his vision as you blurred out the future he could have had with you. The little girl disappeared from the garden, her curly hair nothing but some weeds that needed to be picked. The walks in the park turned to him sitting on a bench, alone. You were laughing with the man that was in your house, in your bed. In your life.

“...Pedro…”

The tears are spilling, he couldn’t hold them in.

“Pedro,  _ please _ , look at me.”

How dare you say that again now. Those words that once sent him to heaven, now sending him to hell, never to see the light again. How could he look at you? You were his light, now shining for someone else. But he meets your beautiful eyes, those eyes that he used to get lost in, the ones that held galaxies and wonder. 

And he sees it. You’re hurting too. He moves towards you, to comfort you. He yearns to hold you in his arms again. You move away from his advance and he halts.

“I couldn’t have you, can’t have you,” you explain, wiping tears from your cheeks. “And he was there, so kind and c-caring…”

He’s pleading with you. “Y/N, I will leave the church. I want to be with you… I need you more than the air I breathe. I… I lov―”

“Don’t you dare.” You’re broken, just like he is. You’re hurting, and it’s all because of him. “Don’t you  _ dare  _ finish that sentence.”

He moves towards you, and this time you don’t move away. He cups your face, his thumbs brushing your tear-soaked cheeks. “I love you, Y/N. I need you to know. Please hear me,” he whispers, “I love you.”

You fall apart in his arms. He embraces you on your doorstep, his warmth surrounding you and he cries with you, you both mourning the future that never will be. All because he couldn’t see it.

He was too late.

He returns to the church alone, and you never return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, I am working on an alternate ending because the Mando Mafia is mad at me


End file.
